Hero
by Macs
Summary: A guy walks into a bar...


Hiya folks! It's drabble time, so I hope you enjoy the show! (Psst! There's a review button at the bottom of the page. Hit it. Go on. You know you want to...)

**Disclaimer: I neither own nor have any affiliation with FFVII **_(except owning a copy of the game...and even that's platinum...)_

**Hero**

His blonde hair wasn't hard to miss as he wandered aimlessly into the dimly lit bar. The thick windows were clean enough, but the soft light of the darkening sky didn't do much to brighten the large room. Heavy boots thumped against the stained dark wood floor, the little dust there was stirring slightly before going back to its business of sitting around waiting to be cleaned.

A few pairs of eyes flicked in his direction, a few whispers followed him but they didn't last long. They used once, but never again because people moved on and have you seen the hair on that new girl at the WRO…?

There was only one empty seat left, the same seat he'd occupied for three months. He wasn't an alcoholic, no; there was no way for him to drown his sorrows in whiskey or cheap beer. He wasn't a smoker, although the scent of stale tobacco in the air always reminded him of things, memories, always memories. Was that all he was now? It didn't really matter either way.

Anyone looking at him would have noticed it if they'd paid attention, but no one did these days. Once upon a time when the whispers used to follow him around like a shadow, he'd heard them all comment, 'but he's so young? Surely that's not…poor boy, he's just a kid…' He never had the words to describe how much he'd hated that. To hell if he wasn't old, and why did he have to look that way to be a hero? He had more scars then those whispers could ever dream of, so he'd be damned if he wasn't more then a kid.

He leant on the damp bar, his elbows against the stained oak surface and one of his leather gloved hands running over his tired face, letting it rest by his shoulder. Those same scars still ached now, visible or not. It wasn't as bad now, but sometimes when he was sleeping he could still hear the screams and the tears and the blood and her smile. He could never be sure what hurt the most. Sometimes it made him wish he didn't have to sleep.

Sometimes he simply didn't sleep at all.

Dreams or nightmares, once he hadn't even been able to distinguish one from the other, both inescapable and both unendurable. Sometimes they were both at once, some sort of divine torture created especially for him. He used to wonder if this was how everyone felt when they lost someone close, but the thought wasn't something he dwelt on. He knew the answer deep inside, even if he was unwilling to accept it.

They'd all lost her. She was gone and of course he wasn't the only person who felt this way, but they didn't understand and sometimes it felt like they didn't care. She was dead, _murdered_ and they were just living, they kept going and he couldn't, how could he? How could they? Like she'd never given her life…

"Do you want your usual?" and the thoughts were gone. He looked up, a smile softening his features. He nodded gently and she brushed the tips of her long fingers against his arm as her dark brown eyes searched over his tired face. She clicked her tongue and shook her head of full chocolate brown hair. "Still not sleeping then?" and he couldn't lie to her, couldn't even try.

"Sometimes," and it was the truth. She looked like she didn't believe it and he couldn't blame her, not really. He could try and count the times he'd lied to her about how he was and run out of fingers and toes ten times over but he honestly was trying. For his family, he was trying.

She placed a glass in front of him and he handed over a slip of paper, the receipt from his latest delivery. She slipped it behind the counter because right now he wanted to be a patron, not a delivery boy or a business partner. She played along, a bottle of liquor hovering over the glass as she snuck him a soft, playful smile.

"Half empty or half full?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He sighed and couldn't stop his own smirk forming.

"It depends how much you fill up the glass," he deadpanned, and he wasn't biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check, not for a second. Well, maybe for a few seconds, but that was it. Honestly…

She clicked her tongue and filled his glass just slightly over half full before she was called over by an overly merry patron. Giving him a good-natured but exasperated look, she left him.

His blue green eyes followed her, seeming to glow even in the dim light. Whilst the scars ached and the memories fought their way to the surface, struggling to stay afloat and noticed in his jumbled mess of a mind, he found himself able to smile.

"Thanks Tifa…" A hero alone can fall, but those who stood together could always support each other. Cloud sipped his drink. Whilst he was still getting used to it, he knew he wasn't alone.

* * *

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